


Moby-Dick:  Loomings  (A Fragment)

by kurtoons



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Classics, Gen, Whales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurtoons/pseuds/kurtoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first chapter of an abandoned project, re-telling Moby-Dick in verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moby-Dick:  Loomings  (A Fragment)

**Author's Note:**

> Another project i started attempting to re-tell Herman Melville's classic tale of obsession and whale oil in verse. I got through the first chapter, and then inspiration fled. I was intimidated by the thought I would eventually have to come up with rhymes for "Queequeeg". And also, Ishmael spends several chapters in Nantucket and I realized that trying to avoid the obvious rhyme would come off as lame, and using the obvious rhyme would be... well, obvious. Also, I was realizing how long the sucker would be even if I omitted all the technical chapters about the practice of whale-rendering.
> 
> So I gave it up. But I still like the start I wrote. And so here I share it.

Chapter 1: Loomings

You can call me Ishmael.  
I have a story here to tell  
Of how a whaler’s mad obsession  
Led to a sad and painful lesson.  
Get your harpoon at the ready,  
We're off to hunt the spermaceti.

Some years ago -- it matters not  
How long it was -- I had a thought  
To leave the cramp'd terrestrial spaces  
And see the world's more soggy places.  
Strange as it seems, this briny folly  
Is how I deal with melancholy.  
The Stoic's dagger's not for me;  
I bury myself out at sea;  
And let the waters deep and wide  
Wash clean all thoughts of suicide.  
When Deep November chills my soul  
I drown it in the ocean's roll. 

Now mark, I'm something of a purist;  
I never travel as a tourist;  
Not admiral nor commodore  
Nor captain of a man-o-war ,  
But as a simple foremast hand.  
Accommodations aren’t that grand;  
But tho’ I’m bossed a bit, ‘tis true,  
Who ain’t a slave? I’m asking you.


End file.
